


Gimme Shelter

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: Sometimes you finish the hunt.  Sometimes the hunt finishes you.  And sometimes -- just sometimes -- there's an angel who can get you through.





	Gimme Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for 2017's SPN Holiday Mixtape challenge. Lovingly beta'd by treefrogie84.

He’s shivering so hard he can barely stand.  He’s been out here a long time

The car -- Dean remembers getting out of the car -- is somewhere behind him, but he’s lost track of exactly where.  The snow keeps coming down in big, wet flakes, fast enough that he can’t find his tracks.  His head hurts, a low, dull, thudding ache, a souvenir from the dead wendigo he left behind half an hour ago.  Maybe longer.

Next time, he’ll pack more than a couple of road flares.  He could really go for a flamethrower right now.  

He fumbles his phone out of his pocket for the fiftieth time and glares at the dark space where bars should be.  His screen glows in the early twilight; he’s burned the last of his daylight getting turned around out here.  The trees, bare except for the occasional scrubby cedar or pine, all look alike to him.

He picks a direction and keeps walking, squinting into the dark and trying to catch a glimpse of anything that isn’t trees and snow.  

Right around the time his legs give out, Dean thinks he sees headlights.

# # # 

Castiel finds Dean collapsed in a snow bank about a quarter of a mile away from where he’d found the Impala, cold to the touch and barely breathing.  His lips are blue.  

There’s only so much Castiel can do.  The limitations of his powers can be difficult to guess at the best of times, and this hunt has been more demanding than most.  He brushes his fingertips across Dean’s forehead and summons what grace he can, willing it forth.  For a moment, the two of them glow, a bright beacon in the snowscape.  

An eternity later, Dean’s eyes flutter open.  

“Cas?”

“Yes.”  

He takes off his coat and bundles Dean into it, trying to ignore how little Dean’s eyes are focusing on him.  

“You’re hypothermic.”

“Oh.”

It’s a long trek back to the stolen sedan on the highway shoulder.  Dean can’t walk, the snow is deep, and the ground beneath uneven.  If ever there was a moment he needed his wings, this would be it.    

Instead, all he can do is concentrate on keeping them both upright.  

He keeps the sedan only long enough to get them safely to the Impala.  

Dean makes a vague noise of complaint when Castiel takes the keys from his pocket and loads him into the passenger seat.  He fastens Dean in for good measure -- possibly the first time in a decade the seat belt has been used -- then walks around the car to the driver’s side.  

He texts Sam while the engine warms up -- signal is poor, but some messages seem to get through -- and adjusts the heat, turning up the fan until one of the small plastic bricks in the defroster duct rattles.  

Beside him, Dean slumps against the door, eyes half-closed, pupils blown, dull gaze fixed on nothing.  He pulls his knees up to his chest like a child, jaw tight.  

Castiel reaches out, presses his hand to Dean’s shoulder.  With some effort, he directs his grace again, lets it permeate Dean’s clothing and vaporize ice and water.  It’s beyond his ability to get Dean warm, but he can at least keep him dry.

Outside, the snow comes down, thick and wet and heavy.  The car lurches as Castiel pulls it onto the uncleared road.  He controls it to the best of his ability, keeps to his best guess at the center of the highway.  

“Dean?”

Silence.

_ “Dean.”   _ He reaches over, shakes Dean’s arm.  

It should be the sort of thing that warrants a punch, but Dean merely blinks in confusion.  Shakes his head slowly.  Lets his head rest against the window.

In a moment of panic, Castiel says the first thing he can think of, the only thing he knows will force Dean to focus.

“Robert Plant is a douchebag.”.  

“Fuck you,” Dean slurs.

# # # 

They don’t make it back into the city.

The snow is too heavy, rendering the road practically imperceptible.  Castiel takes a gamble and turns onto what he hopes is a rural drive.  The car slides into the corner, threatening to lose traction entirely, but he rights it at the last second.  They inch forward through a gap in the trees and, for a long moment, it looks like he’s made a mistake, that the only thing out here is darkness and more snow.

And then he spots it: a house, windows dark, tucked toward the back of the clearing.  

It will have to do.  

Dean barely complains at being lifted out of the car.  He’s still drifting at the edge of consciousness despite Castiel’s efforts to keep him engaged.  

“Nearly there,” he says, then kicks the door in.

His first impression is that the house is abandoned.  He sets aside that notion when he notices that while the furniture is covered, there’s little dust.  The bookshelves are still lined with books and personal items.  He spots a couple of family photographs.  The thermostat in the hallway is set to 55.  

Not abandoned.  Just vacant for the winter.

Castiel cranks the heat to 80.  

The mattress is bare in the first bedroom he finds, but there’s a zipped bag of linens on the dresser.  Dean makes a soft, distressed noise when Castiel puts him down, curling reflexively in on himself.  

One profoundly un-erotic ordeal involving removing clothing from a semi-conscious, shivering Dean later, Castiel strips and joins him in bed.  Moments later, cocooned in a soft blanket and pressed against Dean’s cold back, he offers up what little grace he has left to heal the frost damage in Dean’s face and his extremities.  

Exhaustion takes him and he drifts.

# # #

Dean’s first thought is less a coherent idea and more realization that there’s not a damn part of his body that wants to move.  His second is that he has to piss, like,  _ yesterday,  _ and everything hurts, and he can’t stop shaking.

It’s unclear in the moment whether he says something, or if Cas just intuits what he needs, but a few minutes later, he’s bundled up in a fluffy white robe in the bathroom and Cas is helping him...well, do what needs doing.  It’s awkward and he’s embarrassed about how goddamn helpless he is, but he’s so wiped he can barely talk, let alone stand, so he rolls with it.  

Then he’s back in bed, and Cas is gone until he isn’t, back with a bowl of soup and a spoon.  He tries to eat, and when he can’t make that happen, Cas feeds him.  Spoons feel like a lot of work right now.  And then he’s wrapped up again, Cas pressed close, warm breath on his shoulder lulling him back to sleep.

Cas wakes him again later, this time with a mug of something sweet and hot.  Condensed milk, maybe?  Dean wants to stay up, to talk and get his bearings, but everything aches, and he’s tired, and he drops back off for a while.  

When he wakes up, Cas has a bowl of canned corned beef hash.  

It’s right around the time Cas shows up with baked beans that Dean starts holding it together.  He eats while Cas watches him, finishes it maybe a little faster than he should.  He feels like he’s coming off a six-day hunt, and he can practically feel the calories going directly to work putting him back together.  “You got any more of that?” he asks, licking the spoon clean.  

“I think there are another couple of cans in the pantry.”  Castiel smiles, lowers his gaze.  He’s in unfamiliar sweats and a t-shirt that’s just a little too tight.  It’s a good look on him.  “How are you feeling?”  

“Hungry.  Tired.”  He takes the mug of warm milk from Cas’ hands.  “Where are we?”

“I may have commandeered an empty vacation home.”  

“Where’s Sam?”  

“In town.”  Cas scoots back to sit beside him against the headboard.  “The storm left a good deal of the county impassable.”

Dean furrows his brow.  “How long was I out?”  

“From when I found you in the snow?”  Cas pauses.  “Just over thirty-seven hours.”

“Shit.”  He pauses, then gestures at the blankets.  “You, uh...  You want in on this?”

Castiel blinks, then nods.

He finishes the milk, then puts the mug down on the bedside table before wriggling down under the covers.  It takes Cas a moment to follow suit, but he does, shifting so that Dean can nestle in under his arm and rest his head on Cas’ chest.  It occurs to him how warm he is and, by extension, how warm he  _ wasn’t  _ until now.  

His fingers hook under the band of Cas’ sweats.  He tugs lightly, smirks up at Cas’ bemused frown.  

“Lose ‘em.  The shirt too.  If I’ve gotta be naked, so do you.”

“You’re wearing a robe.”  Cas points out.  “If you’d rather I brought you your clothes--”

“Naked.  Now.”  

Cas huffs softly, but does as he’s asked.  When Dean nestles up against him again, he makes a soft sound of pleasure, savoring the touch of warm skin against skin.  He traces slow shapes along Cas’ ribs, then down his side.

“You realize we’ve been naked in this bed for most of the time we’ve been here?”

“Wasn’t in any condition to enjoy it then.”  

“Arguably you’re not in any condition to enjoy it now.”

“Guess you’d better be gentle, then,” Dean teases as his fingers drift still lower, brushing at the soft hair below Cas’ navel.  He smiles as he feels Cas’ cock twitch.  He teases: inner thigh, hip, belly, and then…

The soft  _ yes  _ that Cas breathes out as Dean takes him in hand is everything.  He pushes up on one arm, leans in to meet Cas’ mouth with his own.  They kiss as they find their rhythm.  Dean hums as Cas’ broad hands glide across his body, lets himself be laid down when his arm starts to ache, moans when Cas begins to stroke him in return.

They take things slow -- not that Dean can move much more than slow right now -- with Cas covering him, protective.  Gentle.  When he straddles Dean and takes them both in hand, he’s still got the blanket over his shoulders like a cloak.  

Maybe he’s still a little bit delirious, but just for a second, Dean sees wings.  

# # #

Castiel cleans them up the human way -- a warm, damp cloth, followed by a towel -- and watches over Dean while he naps afterward.  He can’t help but be fond, to smile at Dean’s soft expression, and how only a short time ago they were...well, celebrating survival, he supposes.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.  He answers.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hey, Cas.  How’s he doing?”  

“Better.  He’s sleeping again, but I expect that he’ll be well enough to travel by tomorrow.”  

“Good to hear.  You guys need anything?  The Sheriff's Department says the roads are looking better if you want me to run something by.”   

“Just your help digging out tomorrow, I think.”  He pauses.  “We should contact the homeowners.  Let them know that their front locks are...compromised.”  

“Already on it.  We’ll tip ‘em off on the way out of town.”  

Dean murmurs in his sleep, reaches out for him.  

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam.”

“Have a good night, man.”

Castiel returns his phone to the bedside table and turns out the light.  


End file.
